


Improvisation

by mrs_d



Series: MCU Kink Bingo [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: (messy complicated feelings), Angst with a Happy Ending, Bondage, Dom Drop, Dom Steve Rogers, Dom/sub, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Light BDSM, M/M, MCU Kink Bingo, Miscommunication, Porn with Feelings, Safe Sane and Consensual, Safewords, Secret Relationship, Sub Sam Wilson, improvised bondage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-08
Updated: 2018-07-08
Packaged: 2019-06-07 07:04:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15213776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrs_d/pseuds/mrs_d
Summary: Steve isn't sure what he has planned for tonight, or what Sam is expecting, but they're going to figure it out together.





	Improvisation

**Author's Note:**

> For the "improvised bondage" square on my card. 
> 
> I tried to tag this as thoroughly as possible to alert readers to potentially upsetting content. If I missed something, please let me know and I will add it. 
> 
> Sending out huge, ginormous thanks and hugs to calliope_soars for beta & encouragement. I literally could not have done it without you. You're the best!

 

Sam’s in the bathroom.

Steve can hear the shower running, the sound of the water hitting the tub. In a few minutes, the flow will be interrupted, the water will hit Sam’s shoulders instead. Steve allows himself a moment, in the midst of his mental preparations, to imagine it. Steve showered this afternoon, in that very bathroom, so he knows what the light looks like, diffused as it is through the white curtain. He pictures Sam naked in that tub, in that light, the steam drifting around him as the water runs over him in thin streams, tracing each line of his sculpted body more perfectly than Steve’s hands could ever hope to. The sparse hair on Sam’s chest will shine, beads of liquid clinging to each strand, making him shimmer with every motion, the soap suds ice-white against his warm brown skin. He’ll be cleaning all over, stretching up to wash his face, his hair. His long lashes will clump with water, framing his expressive eyes. His fingers will trace his sharp jawline, checking to see if he needs to shave. Then he’ll reach down between his legs, making sure he’s clean for whatever Steve has planned for him tonight.

Steve blinks himself out of the fantasy and tries to focus on the problem at hand— namely, that he isn’t sure what he has planned for Sam tonight.

The truth is he wasn’t planning on anything — they never play when they’re not at home. He glances around at their current accommodations and reminds himself that, whatever they do, they’ll have to keep quiet tonight. The hotel is luxe, but he can’t imagine it’s well-insulated, and the last thing they need is a noise complaint. Not when they have separate rooms, and not when no one here knows about them.

Which brings Steve back to tonight. He wasn’t — he isn’t — prepared. Not for a scene, anyway. He imagined they’d sleep together, sure. Do something nice and vanilla — they’ve been apart for a week, after all, and arrived at this charity ball separately, Steve from a solo mission and Sam from his day job at the VA.

He could have refused, when Sam cornered him just after the red carpet to ask if they could play; Sam knows that he usually needs a day or two to recover from being in the field before he can take on the burden of command again. But Steve could see that Sam needed it. He was practically begging, and Steve— well. Steve has a hard time refusing Sam on the best of days, but when he begs? Steve doesn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell when Sam begs.

Steve looked around them, making sure the reporters and other guests were occupied, and gave Sam a tiny nod. The relief in Sam’s eyes made it all worthwhile.

“No alcohol tonight, then,” Steve added quietly, watching as his firm tone and expression made Sam’s breath hitch like always. “Not a drop.”

Sam nodded. This was standard procedure. “Your room?”

“Eleven o’clock,” Steve confirmed, just as he heard someone across the room call out his name— no, his title. He put on his Captain America smile again, but before he turned away he caught Sam’s arm. “And Sam?”

“Yes, Steve?” Sam replied— not _Yeah?_ or _What?_ It was like they were already playing, and Steve felt his pulse quicken at once.

“Don’t be late.” In one motion he let Sam go, put a respectable distance between them again, and spun to face the reporter who was striding across the room with her cameraman and just one more question.

Steve’s spent the last ten minutes — pretty much the entire time since Sam arrived — kissing him. Because he’d missed Sam so much it wasn’t even funny. Then, just as his body was starting to think about doing some other things with Sam, he put his game face on and sent Sam into the bathroom to clean up while he made a plan for the evening.

But Sam will be finished up in the shower soon, and Steve still has no idea what they’re going to do.

He’s tempted to call it off, to strip out of his suit and join Sam in the shower right now, but he agreed to it. He got Sam’s hopes up, and his own too, if he’s honest. He’s looking forward to playing. He just has to figure out the game.

It can’t be anything too involved; he didn’t bring any of their toys or supplies. Not even rope or an eye mask. He has a grappling hook in his utility belt, but it’s much too dangerous to fire something like that indoors. Plus, Sam’s not keen on repurposing mission gear; like Steve, he has a deep respect for weaponry. Even if Steve could get the rope out of his grappling hook somehow, worrying about it would be a distraction for both of them. Not sexy.

Sam doesn’t really need to be restrained; he’s good enough at holding still and following orders that Steve could keep him where he needed him without ropes. But the look in Sam’s eyes tonight... Steve’s pretty sure Sam wants it. And Steve has to admit that the dreamy expression that floats across Sam’s face when Steve has him tied up is incredibly tempting; Steve gets a little hard just thinking about how deep he can take Sam, how much he can give him by lifting the responsibility he carries every minute of every day off his shoulders.  

Steve eyes the bed — there’s a headboard, at least. He can work with that. And a chair at the desk that looks relatively sturdy. Scenarios flash across his mind, but before he can plan anything he needs to know what, exactly, Sam is looking for tonight. Which means that he’ll have to cover Sam’s eyes, since it’s easier for him to talk like that. Steve has a spare white t-shirt in his luggage; if he folds it into a thin rectangle and twists the ends, it will do as a blindfold. He digs it out and lays it on the bed before he starts to undress, sticking a finger into the knot of his tie to loosen it absentmindedly as he heads to the closet.

The idea hits him a second later, and it’s so simple that Steve laughs at himself for not seeing it sooner. He opens the closet door. Sam’s suit is hanging there neatly, the deep purple necktie draped around the hanger, still knotted like there’s an invisible person wearing it. Steve grabs it and unties it, then does the same with his own, and tosses them onto the bed, too. As he hangs up his suit jacket he has another thought, and snags both of their pocket squares as well.

As the shower shuts off, he takes off the rest of his clothes except for his boxer briefs and gets to work. He rolls up the t-shirt, tucks the ties and pocket squares out of sight under one corner of the duvet, and sets his open toiletries bag on the nightstand, the lube and condoms ready at hand if he needs them.

He sits on the bed to wait for Sam, wishing he had more supplies, but it’ll have to do.

When Sam emerges from the bathroom he’s in his underwear, too, since that’s always the way they start their scenes. His eyes find Steve’s at once, then drop to the ground. Steve smiles faintly, mostly to put Sam at ease. Whatever happened while he was gone, it must have been bad for Sam to need this so much on the first night that he’s back.

“Come here,” he says softly. “Please.”

Sam crosses the room, and Steve stands up to meet him, the t-shirt in his hands. Steve kisses him, feels the tightness in his body, like he’s holding his breath. Waiting.

Steve holds up the makeshift blindfold. “I’m gonna cover your eyes, so we can talk about this. Okay?”

Sam nods. “Yes, Steve.”

Steve kisses him again, then nudges Sam into turning around. He ties the ends of the t-shirt behind Sam’s head, and when it’s secure, some of the tension goes out of Sam’s shoulders. Steve kisses the back of his neck once, feels Sam shiver against his lips, and pulls back. If they weren’t playing, he’d linger the way he did when Sam came to his room half an hour ago. But he has a job to do now; Sam’s counting on him.

He guides Sam onto the bed, propped up against the headboard with both pillows behind him. Steve switches on the bedside lamp, turns off the overhead light, and settles in the desk chair, edging it close enough to the bed that he can hold Sam’s hand. He runs his thumb over Sam’s knuckles, watches Sam take a few deep breaths.

“What do you need?” he asks.

“You,” Sam replies at once.

“No one-word answers,” Steve reminds him.

He’s smiling, and he keeps his tone gentle, but there’s a bit of an edge to it nonetheless. An edge that Sam obviously notices, because his grip tightens just a little.

“It’s okay,” says Steve before Sam can apologize. “I just need to know what I can do for you.”

“Tie me up,” Sam replies after a moment. “Hold me down.”

“I can do that,” Steve assures him.

“And make love to me,” Sam adds. “Any way you choose.”

Steve blinks, hesitating. They should probably get into more detail than that, but they’ve been having sex for over two years now; he knows what Sam likes, and Sam’s trusting him to make him feel good. Still...

“You’ll tell me if I choose something you don’t like,” Steve says. It’s not really a question — more of an instruction — and Sam nods.

“I will, Steve,” he promises.

“Good,” says Steve, and Sam seems to relax a little more, his limbs sinking into the too-soft hotel bed. “Anything else?”

He always asks, and sometimes Sam adds a caveat — tells him something that’s usually good is no good tonight, or suggests something they’ve been talking about and haven’t tried yet — but tonight he shakes his head right away, his grip on Steve’s hand tight, slippery from his shower or maybe it’s sweat.

“Use your words, darling,” Steve has to insist when Sam doesn’t speak.

“Yes, Steve,” says Sam, automatic.

“Is there anything else you want me to do?”

“No, Steve,” Sam says quickly, breathlessly.

“Okay,” says Steve. He guides them through a few more of the basics — options that are usually off the table and are off the table again tonight. They remind each other of their safewords, not that they’d ever forget them, but it’s good practice, and it’s become a ritual between them, a sacrament they share.

Finally, when Sam tells him he’s ready, Steve goes from leading the conversation to really taking charge.

“Lie down,” he instructs, moving the pillows for him. “Blindfold off. Roll onto your stomach, arms over your head.”

While Sam does that, Steve starts some quiet music on his phone — one of their favorite playlists, low and smoky.

“Now, we’re improvising, so really this isn’t the best material,” he warns as he pulls the ties out from under the duvet. “Silk is too slippery for a real knot, so it’ll have to be a slip knot.”

“Okay,” Sam says into the mattress.

“Which means that it might get too tight if you pull too hard,” Steve continues, looping one end around Sam’s left wrist. “I need you to tell me if that happens. Can you do that?”

“Yes, Steve.”

“Good.” Steve tugs one loop closed and kisses the thin skin there before he moves on to the other wrist. “You’re so good to me.”

“I try,” Sam replies, sounding for the first time all night like he’s relaxed enough to enjoy himself.

Steve smiles and finishes the second knot, gets Sam to check it before helping him put his hands under the pillow, arranges it so he’s comfortable with his head mostly off it, his face turned so he can breathe.

Steve leaves him there for a moment while he ties two loops into the second tie. Then he grabs Sam’s ankle, puts his foot through one loop, and tugs. There isn’t much material to work with — Sam can’t spread his feet more than about six inches — but that’s okay. He doesn’t need anything more than that right now.

“That feels better, doesn’t it,” Steve murmurs as he admires his work. It’s not great, but it’ll do.

He runs one hand fondly up Sam’s spine while he waits for Sam to speak. Steve doesn’t really need a response — he can tell Sam’s already breathing easier — but...

“Answer me,” he insists.

“Yes, it feels better,” says Sam. “So much better.”

Steve rewards him for speaking by climbing up on the bed. He’s fulfilled one of Sam’s requests, now it’s time for the second one. He straddles Sam’s hips and plants his hands on Sam’s shoulders. Sam exhales at the touch, his eyelashes brush the pillow as he closes his eyes. Steve puts some weight on him, holds him there. Sam fidgets once, giving Steve the signal that he can hold tighter, harder. So Steve lowers himself a little, giving Sam more, making any movement impossible.

He stays like this until the song changes, and Sam half-whimpers when Steve lets him go. Steve smirks and sits back. “You’re hard already, aren’t you?”

Sam’s hips shift against the mattress in reply. “Ah, ah, none of that,” Steve warns teasingly, and all Sam’s movements cease. “You said any way _I_ choose,” he reminds him, “and I certainly don’t choose you fucking the mattress.”

Sam huffs out a laugh. “Sorry, Steve.”

Steve hums his approval and leans over Sam again, pressing him down once more. “I’ll let it go,” he says, his lips on the back of Sam’s neck. “Once.”

Sam shivers. Steve’s tempted to turn him over, put his mouth on Sam’s nipples, which are always sensitive when he’s hard, but he sticks to the plan instead. He shifts the pillow and nudges Sam into moving, till his forehead is on it and nothing else. He makes sure Sam can breathe, and then he gets his hands on Sam’s shoulders again.

Slowly and deliberately, he works Sam’s tense muscles, brings his thumbs up his neck to find the pressure points there, watches Sam wince and then relax. Steve wonders what kind of pain he’s been in, what he’s been doing all week. Working too many hours in those awful chairs at the VA, if the tension in his shoulders can tell him anything. Steve would bet that Sam’s not been sleeping enough, either. Staying up nights, probably, worrying about him, about everybody, more than he ever worries about himself.

Steve works his way down Sam’s back, kneading every tight spot he finds until Sam’s loose and pliant below him, his mouth slack and his eyes closed. Steve thinks for a second that he’s fallen asleep, but as soon he climbs off him and out of the bed, Sam’s eyes open.

“Come on,” Steve says to cover his relief — working Sam over has aroused him enough that he’d be disappointed if he had to finish this by himself.

He helps Sam get up to his knees, then practically lifts him off the bed, since his feet are bound too close together to let him move with ease. Sam kind of sags into Steve’s arms, but it’s not the slump of fatigue. It’s trust, and it warms Steve, like it always does, to think that Sam trusts him enough to let him see him this vulnerable. Steve wraps him up tight and kisses his cheek, sets him down in the desk chair gingerly, like he’s something priceless, which of course he is.

He checks Sam’s wrists and ankles — not too tight, good, and Sam tells him there’s no tingling or coldness in his fingers and toes. Steve makes him move each one, just in case, then goes back to the bed to find the t-shirt they’d been using as a blindfold.

He doesn’t ask this time — they’re playing now, so it’s his decision to make, not Sam’s. He ties it around Sam’s eyes, waves his hand in front of his face to make sure Sam can’t see. He steps back, smiles down at the picture Sam makes: his dark nipples pert in the cool room, the black fabric of his boxer briefs stretched in a telltale bulge that Steve can’t resist.

He takes a silent step forward and lowers his hand. One finger hovers; Steve knows Sam’s body almost as well as his own, and he takes a second to visually locate the right spot, the sensitive place just under the head of his cock. He hesitates another second, then touches it. Sam jumps and exhales, shaky and out his nose.

“Keep still,” Steve tells him. Sam doesn’t even nod to acknowledge the command. “Good.”

Steve keeps his finger where it is, not moving, daring Sam to budge as he closes the space between their faces and kisses his mouth, soft and shallow. It’s a little like kissing a statue, except that statues don’t breathe or quiver. Steve rewards this stillness with more touch, cupping the full length of Sam’s erection with his hand, feeling it harden further. Still, Sam doesn’t squirm, doesn’t react. Not even when Steve puts a hand on his shoulder to hold him down in the chair, or when Steve moves his mouth to his ear, his neck, his chest.

He gets halfway down Sam’s collarbone before he makes himself stop. Clearly, his first impulse was right; Sam doesn’t need the restraints, but he asked for them, so Steve pulls away and retrieves the pocket squares he’d taken from their suits earlier. He puts one of Sam’s wrists down on the arm of the chair and crouches, pulls a corner of the pocket square through the loop and knots it. There’s barely enough fabric, and the tie is stretched to its limit between Sam’s wrists, but Sam has assured him he’ll let Steve know the instant he feels any discomfort, and Steve trusts that. He ties the second one off and steps back again.

Sometime when they’re not in the thick of it, Steve will have to do this again, so he can draw it. Maybe he’d put Sam back in his suit, with just the accessories missing, repurposed in this way. Or maybe he’d have him fully nude, if Sam could stand it— if Steve could. There’s a reason he insists they keep their underwear on when beginning a scene. Just thinking about freeing Sam’s cock now has Steve’s mouth watering, but they’re not done yet. Sam likes the tease, after all, and Steve decides he’s got enough patience to make Sam wait a little longer.

Steve circles the chair so he’s behind it. The music, he notices vaguely, has stopped. He could look into that, but he doesn’t mind the silence, and he gets the impression Sam doesn’t either. He’s deep under; he hasn’t budged, not even to wriggle one finger or toe. God, Steve loves it when he’s like this.

He puts his hands over Sam’s forearms, another layer of restraint, and presses his cheek against Sam’s. “You can move now,” he whispers.

Sam exhales and starts to squirm at once, his shoulders and hips shifting. He bends his wrists, flexes his feet, taking advantage of the tiny range of motion that Steve’s left him.

“That’s right,” Steve encourages him, pushing down a little more. His own cock is hard, pressing against the firm back of the chair in a delightful, maddening tease. “Try to break free.”

He’s kissing and sucking Sam’s neck now, folded so far over him that he could lick Sam’s nipple if he wanted to. He does want to, he decides a second later, and Sam’s back arches, his chest colliding with Steve’s chin, his head rolling onto Steve's shoulder. Steve snickers and does it again, laving it more slowly this time, his tongue picking up a trace of hotel soap under the familiar taste of Sam’s skin.

Sam’s squirming a little more desperately by the time Steve goes back to his neck. “Steve,” he breathes.

“Yes, Sam?”

“Fuck me,” Sam says. “Please. Fuck me.”

“No,” Steve replies lightly.

Sam whines, but Steve knows it’s a good sound. Sam loves being denied touch, and he would safeword out if it got to be too much. Still, Steve glances down, sees the tight tent of Sam’s underwear, the growing wet spot. He starts kissing Sam’s neck again and prepares to take one hand off his arm, to reach down and give Sam some relief.

“Then hurt me,” Sam says suddenly.

Steve freezes, unsure of what he just heard. “What?”

“Bite me,” Sam says. “Hit me. Hurt me, Steve.”

“I—” Steve manages. He can’t move. “No.”

“Come on,” Sam insists, and the words start coming like a chant under his breath. “Hurt me. Bruise me. Mark me so they know I’m yours.”

Steve still can’t move. His heart is pounding. _No._ His lips form the word, but there’s no sound. And even if there was, it’s not the right word. Because _no_ doesn’t really mean _no_ in this game, it means he’s still playing. How does he say that it’s real, that— what’s that word again? The word that means _no, we’re done, I want out?_

Sam is rocking below him, the chair creaking with the strain. “Come on,” he says. He’s said it a few times now. “Do it. Hurt me, Steve, please, you need to—”

“Ginger ale,” Steve says abruptly. That’s the word, he’s found it at last. And he can move again, so he does, putting a good foot and a half between him and Sam’s chair.

Sam’s words and motions stop at once. He sags forward, his head hanging.

Behind him, Steve feels like he’s not really here, like there’s someone else standing in this room, occupying this body, looking at this scene as an outsider would — confused and mildly disgusted. He looks down, sees the bulge in his own underwear, the telltale sign that he was enjoying this, that he was aroused by it, and feels nauseous. He looks away.

The dissociation passes slowly, leaving Steve staring at the back of Sam’s head. The blindfold knot is loose, he realizes eventually. He should retie it— no. He should remove it. And untie Sam’s wrists and ankles. Steve needs to free him. Right now. That’s his job when they’re playing. He’s in charge. Running this game.

This game where Sam just changed the rules.

Steve shoves himself into action, crouching at Sam’s side to undo the knots, tearing one of the pocket squares — he can’t tell what color it is, who it belongs to — in his hurry. He massages Sam’s feet, warming them up because they’re a little cold, and that’s not good. The restraint was too tight, the tension wasn’t distributed evenly; he knew he shouldn’t have used the silk tie. He should have waited till they were at home, till they had their things, the ropes that Sam liked so much, the ropes that used to be enough.

Steve reaches up for the blindfold, but Sam clutches at it and twists his face away. “Don’t,” he says, the word soft and final in the silent room.

Steve doesn’t. He backs up, backs off. Sits on the bed beside the bag that’s still open on the nightstand, a tube of lubricant and row of condoms looking up at him mockingly. What was he thinking, agreeing to play tonight? He should have known something was wrong. The way Sam was acting. Asking, begging, hurting — Steve should have seen it.

And now — fuck — Sam’s even more upset. He’s taken off the blindfold and started rubbing his forehead, his eyes closed, his hands shaking. Steve should go to him, comfort him, but his limbs aren’t responding; he’s stuck in his head.

He plays back the scene, over and over, and realizes that Sam stopped talking — stopped responding, when Steve asked him not to move. And Steve didn't catch it, didn't insist on an answer. Didn't even— oh, God, and when he did talk, he told him to try and escape? What was he thinking, why would he do that? He may as well have asked Sam to ask him to hurt him.

Steve feels sick. What kind of lover — what kind of Dom — does that? What kind of person _is_ a Dom, anyway? Who ties their partner up for fun? What the hell is wrong with him?

“I’m sorry,” he says, the words coming out before he consciously decides to say them.

“No,” says Sam from behind his hands. He stands, stumbling to his feet. Steve finally manages to get up, too, but Sam pushes him away.

“Where are you going?” Steve asks, watching Sam open the closet and pull on his pants.

“Back to my room,” Sam replies. He won’t look at Steve. He tugs his shirt free of the hanger and slips it over his shoulders.

“Why?”

Sam’s chest heaves. For a moment Steve thinks he might cry. But then he looks up, his eyes landing over Steve’s shoulder. His mouth twists into a bitter approximation of a smile. “Gotta keep up appearances.”

Before Steve can answer — before Steve can even process what he’s said — Sam’s shirt is buttoned, the door is open, and he leaves a draft of warmer hallway air behind him as he goes.

Steve stares at the space Sam used to occupy. There’s a whir and a click as the electronic lock engages, and Steve remembers that Sam doesn’t have a key. A locked door between them now, it’s finished. Sam’s shut him out.

He wants to weep. His breathing is uneven, his throat thick, his eyes stinging. But he won’t. He won’t, because there are more important things he needs to do.

He needs to put on some pants. He needs to put on some goddamned pants and a shirt and follow Sam. Because it’s not finished, and he won’t accept a locked door between them, a separate room, an _—_

_Mark me so they know I’m yours._

—appearance.

“Dammit,” he says out loud.

The pieces fall together in his mind's eye: separate arrival times, separate rooms, separate tables at dinner. The reporters, with cameras and flashbulbs and nosy questions—

_I'm here with America's most eligible bachelor. You got anybody special in your life right now, Captain?_

_No, no._

_No lucky ladies?_

_No, none._

—and in the midst of all this, Sam was asking for more, for some outward sign that he could wear proudly, a mark that would prove that they’re real. He did it the safest way he knew how — blindfolded and hiding — and Steve rejected it. Rejected him.

Steve rifles through his luggage, finds clean sweatpants and a t-shirt. Steps into his shoes, snags his room key card off the desk, and hustles out the door.

The hall is empty in both directions, the elevator closed and silent. He hesitates, considers taking the stairs, but he remembers he doesn’t know which floor Sam’s on. He’ll have to go down to the front desk to ask, and the clerk will ask why he needs this information, and Steve will have to make something up, tell another lie, treat their relationship like a dirty secret.

_Mark me so they know I'm yours._

No. He won’t do that. He refuses, stabbing the call button with his pent-up feelings, squaring his shoulders, ready to face the world, to fight for—

“Sam,” he says, when the doors open, and Sam is there, slouched in one corner of the elevator.

Sam’s head turns. For the first time since before they started the scene, he meets Steve’s eye. For a second, anyway.

“Sam,” Steve says again. He steps inside, reaches out, then pauses. “Can I touch you?” he asks.

Sam’s red-rimmed eyes close. He nods. “Please,” he whispers.

Steve wraps Sam up in his arms, like he did when his ankles were bound — it seems like Sam can barely stand now, too. He slumps forward, his head landing on Steve’s shoulder, and draws in a shuddering breath. Steve holds him tight, rubs his back, waits for the words to come.

“I—” Sam gets out, but then the elevator lurches and starts climbing. Sam looks panicked and lets go; Steve doesn’t let him get far, clasping his hand firmly. In plain sight.

“Steve,” Sam says, his voice a question.

“What floor are you on?” Steve asks.

“Ten,” Sam replies, like it’s a reflex.

Steve leans just far enough away to press the button. Sam must have forgotten to push it earlier, and now they’re travelling up, heading towards whoever called the elevator.

“Steve—”

“It’s all right, I got you,” Steve tells him.

Sam responds to the calm control — the Dom — in his voice. He relaxes minutely against Steve’s side, and Steve gives him a little smile, just as the door opens.

Three people are in the hall; Steve doesn’t recognize any of them. One — a young man with a septum piercing and tattoos along his arms — glances curiously at their joined hands as he steps into the elevator, but Steve doesn’t spare him more than a passing thought during the short ride up to the tenth floor.

Sam leads them to a room at the end of the hall. He uses his free hand to pull a key card out of his pocket and open the door, revealing a messy hotel room that smells like him. Like home.

“Sorry, I—” Sam starts, waving at the clothes strewn everywhere, but Steve doesn’t let him finish. He tugs on their joined hands and pulls Sam back into his arms, where he belongs. They fit together as perfectly as they always do, and Steve sighs in relief when Sam hugs him back.

“I love you,” Steve murmurs into Sam’s shoulder. “You know that, right?”

There’s a rustle of fabric as Sam nods.

“Good,” Steve says. “That’s good.”

Sam breathes in, shaky and uneven. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m sorry I ruined it.”

“You didn’t ruin anything,” Steve assures him. “I’m sorry I didn’t do what you were asking of me.”

Sam tenses. “Steve—”

“I’m not going to hurt you in a scene. Or ever,” Steve says, firmly because it’s important, a hard limit he didn’t really think about, that was only abstract before tonight. “I’m never gonna bruise you. But if you want people to know about us, then we can tell them.”

Sam pulls back. “Just like that?” he says skeptically.

“Well, no,” Steve has to admit after a moment’s thought. There are plenty of reasons — good reasons — they’ve kept quiet about their relationship. “It’s a little more complicated than that, but we can start by making a press release, first thing tomorrow—”

“I don’t care about the press, Steve,” says Sam, letting go completely and turning away.

Steve frowns, confused. “Then what—?”

“I care about my family, asking me every holiday if I’ll be bringing someone home. I care about Natasha still trying to set you up on dates. I care about not being able to—”

He stops, throws up his hands in an aborted gesture.

“Go on,” Steve says, and Sam — Sam who doesn’t think he deserves good things, who’s embarrassed to ask for what he really wants — closes his eyes.  

“Kiss you goodbye,” he chokes out, each syllable like jagged glass. “And when you’re away, I can’t ask, I can’t talk to the team because—”

“Because they don’t know what we are to each other,” Steve finishes quietly.

Sam nods, still facing the wall, still with his eyes closed. Steve sighs, the full realization of Sam’s words hitting him with a wave of guilt and shame. Considering that he just promised not to hurt Sam, he’s inflicted a lot of damage.

“I’m sorry,” Steve says. The sting is back in his eyes, the tightness in his throat. “I didn’t realize what I was asking of you, when I said we should keep this quiet.”

“It wasn’t just your decision,” Sam counters gently. “I thought it was a good idea, too, at first. But as time went on, and my feelings started to change....” He turns around and looks Steve steadily in the eye. “I should’ve told you. Instead, I let it sit. And fester.”

“How long?” Steve makes himself ask. He doesn’t want to, but he needs to know.

“A while,” Sam replies evasively. He drops his gaze again. “The words I said tonight, what I asked for. They’ve been in my throat since Paris.”

Steve closes his eyes briefly, remembering the scent of witch hazel pervading their tiny room at the inn as Steve dabbed at Sam’s bruises, courtesy of whatever goon they were fighting that week. _You’ll have these marks for days,_ Steve had told him. _A souvenir,_ he’d said. And Sam had grown quiet, watched Steve’s hands move over his skin. Not even wincing, just watching.

Paris. God. That was half a year ago or better. How many times have they played since then? How many times has Sam swallowed the words, has he not asked for what he wants, what he needs?

 _Don’t you trust me,_ Steve feels like saying, but even in his head it sounds like an accusation — _you don’t trust me._ And maybe that’s true. Maybe that’s fair. Maybe Steve hasn’t earned it. Doesn’t deserve it. Because all this time he’s missed something that was right in front of him.

As Sam places a hand on his forearm, Steve feels the pull of his dark feelings — the drop, he reminds himself — threatening to overcome him again. He shakes it off as best he can and puts his hand over Sam’s. Squeezes once. He’s tired, and he wants to curl up in a ball under a blanket until the world goes away, but Sam is looking at him like he’s waiting for the fallout.

“Okay,” Steve says, the plan coming to him in bits and pieces as he talks. “Okay, here’s what we’re gonna do. You’re getting out of that suit, we’re getting some ice cream from room service, and we’re gonna watch something brainless on TV.”

“We— what?” says Sam, pulling back. “But—”

“I know,” Steve tells him, low and serious. “Believe me, I know. And we’re gonna talk about it, just... not right this minute, okay? I need a break.”

Sam looks for a moment like he wants to argue, like he wants to dive right back into the deep end, but then his face clears, and he nods. “Okay. Okay, I’ll get changed while you order?”

“Deal,” Steve agrees, and they smile at each other for the first time in what feels like a really long time.

The very nice kitchen staff inform Steve that they don’t sell ice cream by the pint, and Steve’s too exhausted to make a trip to the corner store, so he does what he hates doing and plays the Cap card. Suddenly, the hotel is very eager to meet his needs, and Steve makes sure to tell them that he’s in Sam’s room. Ten minutes later there’s a knock on the door, and Steve, who’s already taken off his t-shirt to get into bed, throws Sam’s collared shirt over his shoulders when he answers it. He doesn’t bother to button it, and the bellhop gapes, but Steve tips him well.

“Are you sure that was a good idea?” Sam asks, taking the ice cream and spoon — the bellhop only brought one — over to the bed. “He could sell his story to the paparazzi.”

Steve shrugs. With everything that’s happened tonight, he’s past the point of caring. “Let him. He probably needs the money.”

Sam tilts his head, conceding the point. “Fair enough.”

“Besides,” Steve goes on, adjusting the pillows and settling himself against the headboard, “it’s gonna come out sooner or later.”

“But we are planning to tell my mother before she reads about it in the tabloids, aren’t we?” Sam asks, a little uncertainly.

“Yes,” Steve tells him, as earnest as he can. “We can call her right now if you want.”

“It’s the middle of the night,” Sam points out.

“Then we’ll do it first thing in the morning,” Steve says. He pats the mattress beside him. “Now, are you coming to bed or what?”

Sam smiles and climbs into bed. Steve lifts his right arm to settle it around Sam’s shoulders; he doesn’t want to let Sam out of arm’s reach for a long, long time. Sam seems happy with this plan — he leans in close and kisses Steve’s cheek. Steve feels himself blush, and he opens the ice cream to cover it.

“So what are we watching?” Sam asks.

Steve puts the ice cream lid in his mouth, so he can grab the remote and hand it over. “Your call,” he says, only a little muffled.

Sam flicks through the guide, pausing when Steve offers him every other spoonful of ice cream. As his blood sugar rises, Steve’s mood rises with it. Soon he’s chuckling a little at the way Sam opens his mouth without taking his eyes off the TV, like a baby bird waiting for food. Then he remembers that Sam is the Falcon, and it makes him laugh out loud.

“What’s so funny?” Sam asks, turning to him with a smile that Steve wishes weren’t so tentative.

“Nothing,” Steve tells him, and kisses Sam’s sweet, sticky mouth.

Sam still looks a little confused when they part, but he turns back to the television. He clicks the remote twice more, and then his eyes light up. “ _Fist of Fury?!_ Oh, and it just started, too, we are totally watching this.”

Steve watches the guide disappear from the screen. A second later it’s replaced by a group of Chinese men lounging around a low table, talking in strange, chipper voices. “What’s _Fist of Fury?”_ Steve asks.

“It’s— wait, you don’t know?” Sam says, turning to give him an incredulous look. “It’s a kung fu movie from the 70s. Bruce Lee,” he adds, like that explains everything.

Steve shrugs blankly.

Sam smiles sadly and shakes his head. “We’ve been together this long, and you don’t know I like Bruce Lee movies,” he laments. “It’s like you don’t even know me.”

Steve knows Sam’s joking, but he feels his entire body run cold all the same. He puts the spoon back into the ice cream tub, its appeal evaporating.

Sam, noticing his reaction, mutes the TV. “I’m sorry,” he says quickly. “I didn’t—”

“No,” says Steve, wondering as he does how many times he’s said that word tonight. How many more times he’s going to have to. “No, it’s okay.”

Sam grimaces. “Not really.” He sets the remote down on the duvet and puts his hand on Steve’s knee instead. “I shouldn’t have joked about that, I didn’t mean it. You know me.”

Steve doesn’t answer. Words he could say — about them, about trust, about what happened tonight — swirl up from his stomach and stick to the inside of his throat.

“I trust you,” Sam adds quietly.

This time the words come out too fast. “If you trust me, then why couldn’t you tell me?”

Sam looks down. “I screwed up,” he acknowledges.

Steve blinks, nods when it’s clear that Sam’s not going to go on. “No more scenes for a while,” Steve says into the silence. “I can’t Dom you again until we’ve worked this out. Okay?”

“Okay,” Sam agrees.

He doesn’t sound disappointed — only understanding — and he keeps his hand on Steve’s knee. The light from the TV flickers, giving Sam’s fingers long shadows. Steve is conscious of the weight between them, the things still left unsaid. He wishes he could go back to a few minutes ago, when they were sharing the ice cream spoon and laughing. He wishes they could go back to Paris, and he could ask Sam what was bothering him before it spiraled out of control and led them here.

But he can’t, and as much as they talk tonight, they’re not going to be able to work it all out in one go. So, with an effort, he draws a breath and forces his shoulders to relax.

“So,” he says, relieved that he makes it sound almost casual. “You like this movie, huh?”

Sam nods. He inhales through his nose and leans into Steve’s side. Steve puts his right arm back around Sam’s shoulders, reaches for the ice cream with his other hand.

“I can’t believe you’ve never heard of it,” Sam says, his voice only a little strained. “Until really recently, we called it _The Chinese Connection_ , but—”

“Oh, I’ve heard of that,” Steve says, remembering suddenly. “Rhodes used to say that whenever he talked about the Mandarin.”

Sam snorts and helps himself to the spoon that’s now within his reach. “Figures,” he says around a mouthful of ice cream. “Rhodey plays it cool and all, but the guy’s a huge nerd.”

“He’s a rocket scientist,” Steve chuckles. “I don’t think he plays it all that cool.”

“True,” says Sam. He tilts the spoon in Steve’s direction and Steve gladly opens up for it. “Great movie, though. Amazing kung fu. Bruce Lee was one of the best martial artists in history.”

Steve eyes the screen doubtfully as he swallows. The picture is fuzzy, the colours muted, but Steve doesn’t see any martial arts. It just seems like a bunch of men working in an outdoor ice factory. Sam turns the volume up, and Steve is struck again by how weird the actor’s voices are, how their lip movements don’t seem to match the words they’re saying.

He finally asks, and Sam explains about dubbing. “Huh,” says Steve, astounded.

“I know,” Sam agrees, a teasing glint in his eye. “And here you were, just getting used to movies having sound.”

Steve grins. Movies with sound had been normal even when he was a kid, but he can’t resist playing it up. “I do miss the good old days. It’s just not the same without a live band in the orchestra pit.”

“Whatever you say, old man,” Sam laughs, feeding him more ice cream.

Steve swallows it and tilts his head — Sam kisses him, just as Steve hoped he would. Steve moves the ice cream tub to his thigh, the condensation making a wet ring on his loose sweatpants, and pulls Sam even closer, presses his lips to Sam’s bare shoulder and watches the goosebumps rise. Sam’s practically in his lap now, and Steve’s tempted to pull him the rest of the way, but he doesn’t want to rush, to push, to land them in another uncomfortable situation.

He turns his attention back to the TV instead, and watches as two characters get jumped by bad guys and die almost instantly. “If this is a kung fu movie, then where’s the kung fu?” he asks.

“That part comes later,” Sam tells him, waving the spoon around carelessly. “This is just the beginning. You’ve got to let it unfold.”

Steve nods, then looks pointedly at the ice cream, which is about to drip onto the duvet. Sam quickly puts it in Steve’s mouth. Steve grins and swallows, pulls the spoon out and licks it clean, but before he can hand it back, Sam’s kissing him.

Compared to the ice cream, Sam’s mouth is hot but no less sweet. His tongue is insistent, almost forceful, and Steve can’t help moaning into it, grateful and eager to let Sam take the lead. He fumbles blindly with one hand, finding the mostly-empty ice cream tub and moving it to the nightstand before it can get knocked over.

Sam takes this for the invitation that it is and swings his leg over Steve’s until he’s straddling him fully, still kissing him fiercely. Steve arches up without meaning to, until they’re pressed together, chest to chest, groin to groin. Even through the layers of fabric Steve feels the zing of arousal — all the pleasure that had been taken away so suddenly earlier rushes back, and he grinds up, getting as close as he can, every bit of indirect friction offering him a glimmer of relief.

After a moment, he comes back to his senses. Remembers where they are, what they’ve gone through tonight.

“Do you—?” he starts to ask, but then he gets lost in Sam’s mouth. “Do you want to—?” he tries again a minute later. Because if kissing is all Sam wants tonight, then he might have to go take a cold shower or three.

“Yeah, I want to,” Sam says, low and emphatic in Steve’s ear. Steve smiles in relief. It’s nothing like what he’d say if they were playing, and Steve’s pretty sure Sam chose those words on purpose, for that reason.

Then Sam’s hand works its way between them, rubbing at Steve’s erection, and Steve loses most of his conscious thought in the shock of how _good_ it feels to have Sam touch him this way.

“Can I— I want to suck you off,” Sam breathes. His warm hand traces the hard line of Steve’s cock enticingly, and Steve’s hips surge up at the words, at the thought of Sam’s wonderful mouth wrapped around him.

But then he pictures it — Sam bent over before him — and his desire wilts somewhat. “No,” he says. Again.

Sam makes a small, desperately disappointed sound. It’s distracting, but Steve makes himself focus and say what he needs to say, awkward as it may be.

“I don’t want you to get on your knees for me,” he says, pulling back. “Not tonight.”

Sam blinks at him, a little dazed, but after a moment he nods. “Right,” he says. “Power dynamics.”

“Right,” Steve agrees. Close enough, anyway. He presses their foreheads together, breathes his next words against Sam’s lips. “Plus, I couldn’t stand it if you stopped kissing me.”

A smile flits across Sam’s face before he gets his mouth on Steve’s again. Steve moans and closes his eyes as Sam’s hand starts moving between them, giving Steve more of the touch he’s craving. It won’t take long — Steve can feel his balls tightening already — so he adds his own hand to the mix, tugging at Sam’s pajama pants. Sam does the same, pulling away quickly to help, and within seconds they’re kissing again, free of their clothes, jerking each other off, hard and fast and perfect.

Sam’s cock is hot and silky smooth in Steve’s palm, Sam’s calloused fingers are just rough enough against Steve’s shaft. A second later the head of Steve’s cock finds the hair at the base of Sam’s, and it’s too much — he shifts, rearranges their hands so they’re holding on together, and thrusts up. The sensation is overwhelming — wet lips, hot skin, tight grip — and Sam gasps, which tells him it felt at least as good on his end as it did on his own. Steve tries it again, makes a concerted effort to kiss Sam at the same time. It’s messy and uncoordinated, but Sam moans into his mouth, so Steve keeps doing it, one hand on Sam’s back to steady him as they rut against each other.

Sam comes first, his mouth slack against Steve’s, his spine curved forward as his cock spits between them. Steve’s hand is hot and dripping, and he can’t help it, he strokes himself with Sam’s spunk and follows, chasing Sam down that rabbit hole, the pleasure shaking its way through him until the touch is too much, and he twitches with the stimulation.

Sam’s kissing him again as they come down from it together, and when Steve opens his eyes, Sam is already looking at him, his expression fond but serious.

“I love you,” Sam says, like it’s a lifeline.

“You too,” says Steve with a smile. They stare stupidly at each other for a moment, while in the background the TV is emitting strange, fake punching sounds.

“Are we good?” Sam asks, worried. 

Steve blinks and considers the question. “I think so,” he says honestly. “I hope so. Tomorrow we’ll call your mother, first thing. And then—”

“She’s gonna want to meet you,” Sam warns him. “Probably give you a shovel talk.”

Steve chuckles. “I can handle it.”

“Easy to say that now while she’s over a thousand miles away,” says Sam, climbing off Steve and grabbing some tissues from the box on the nightstand. “But just you wait till Christmas.”

“It’ll be fine,” Steve insists. “Trust me.”

“I do,” Sam reminds him. Steve kisses him for that and helps him clean up, then settles down with his head on the pillow. His body is loose, his limbs singing with that post-sex buzz he loves so much.  

Sam curls up beside him, on his right as always. “So we call my mother, she threatens you with dismemberment and/or death if you break her little boy’s heart, and then what?” he asks. “What happens after that?”

Steve strokes Sam’s side as he thinks it over. “Then I guess we talk more,” he says finally. “Try to figure things out, set some new ground rules.”

“We can talk more now, if you want,” Sam offers, but Steve can tell he’s stifling a yawn to do so.

“No,” he replies, hoping it’s the last time he has to say that tonight. His eyes are heavy, his breathing slowing down. “Easier to do that tomorrow.”

Sam nods. “Okay. Hey, look,” he adds after a moment’s pause. “Kung fu.”

Steve lifts his head enough to check, and catches a glimpse of a shirtless man flying around, kicking and punching his assailants so quickly he’s almost a blur. Or maybe that’s just Steve’s eyes.

“We’ll have to watch the whole thing another time,” he says, and Sam agrees, fumbling around until he finds the remote. Once the TV’s off, Steve turns out the lamp, and the room is suddenly pitch dark and silent.

“You have it on DVD?” Steve asks the darkness.

“No,” says Sam with a breathy sound that could be a laugh. “VHS.”

“What’s VHS?” Steve asks, but Sam doesn’t answer.

Steve’s eyes adjust to the darkness, and he’s able to watch Sam sleep. He looks young and peaceful, like a fairy tale prince. Steve loves him, needs him, doesn’t know what he’d do if...

It doesn’t bear thinking about. Sam’s here, he’s not going anywhere. Tonight was unfortunate, but they’ll recover. They trust each other, love each other. The rest, as Sam would say, is gravy.

Steve’s thoughts get foggy, he’s fading away, falling into the dark with only Sam by his side to ground him. Tomorrow, he’ll figure it out. Tomorrow, they’ll talk and laugh and eat together and watch Sam’s favorite movie.

Tomorrow, it’ll be all right. 

**Author's Note:**

> Check out my SamSteve obsession on [Tumblr](http://mrsdawnaway.tumblr.com).


End file.
